


Spirit Healing

by nightram



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Injured Hawke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 09:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2343668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightram/pseuds/nightram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What’s happened?” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Merrill looks up at him with wide eyes; for a moment she is without words.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“We were overwhelmed by raiders on the Wounded Coast,” she explains as she hurries to discard Hawke’s equipment safely on Anders’ desk, knocking over what is left of his pot of ink in the process.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spirit Healing

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to flesh out the dynamic between Anders and Hawke, plus balance the banter between the other companions. I wasn't sure whether I should add this as a new chapter to Clinical Tuition, but it doesn't entirely fit the theme, so I've omitted it to it's own post.

Thankfully it was empty when Merrill burst into the clinic in a fluster. Anders had been working on the next contention in his manifesto regarding the state of mages. He and Justice had felt quite serene writing away at their own leisure. It had been a quiet day.

“Anders?” the elven mage shouted in panic, “Anders!” Merrill had a small frame, even for an elf. He didn’t even hear her rushed footsteps or thumping at the door. However he did hear her practically screaming his name once she had thrown the heavy wooden door open, and a cold draught followed her.

“Merrill, yes, what is it?” he asks without much regard for the tone he chooses to use. Anders rushes to hide his papers in an old jewelry box before he stands from the makeshift desk and turns around.

“Oh thank goodness you’re here, I was worried you wouldn’t be and then I guess I’d have had to run to the Hanged Man maybe. You aren’t usually anywhere but here,” Merrill rambles breathlessly, her tongue working quickly to tighten Anders’ patience. He wasn’t particularly fond of the Dalish mage considering her casual disregard for the demons her magic dealt with. She didn’t care how much danger it brought on not only herself, but those around her.

“Can I help you, Merrill?” Anders asks again, taking in a deep breath and begins counting to ten in his head. She was a lovely person, aside from her blood magic, and a minority like him; he ought to have more leniency for her. Justice didn’t.

“Oh- sorry, yes, no, it’s Hawke.” This is when Anders notices that Merrill not only is covered in cuts and dirt, but is carrying Hawke’s heavy helm, sword and shield. How he didn’t see these carted in her tiny hands, he knows not. Now he begins to worry.

“What’s happened?” 

Merrill looks up at him with wide eyes; for a moment she is without words.

“We were overwhelmed by raiders on the Wounded Coast,” she explains as she hurries to discard Hawke’s equipment safely on Anders’ desk, knocking over what is left of his pot of ink in the process. 

“Where is she?” Spilt black ink ignored, the healer looks for his hewn staff; he expects Merrill is to lead him to wherever Hawke lays in a pool of her own blood. He can picture it.

“Aveline has her, I, uh, I ran ahead to make sure you were here, we didn’t want to take her so far for no reason, it would’ve defeated the purpose.” Merrill hurries back to the open door and leans out, her posture becoming rigid when she sees the Captain of the Guard hastily descend the nearby stairs with Hawke’s limp body over her shoulder. Varric follows behind with Aveline’s shield slung over his shoulder, his crossbow Bianca readied in his arms.

“Get Aveline to lay her on this cot,” Anders instructs before disappearing into the storeroom out the back of his clinic. Unsure of what he is going to be dealing with, he throws balls of gauze into a small wicker basket and drops multiple coloured potions and salves in as well. He makes sure to grab some of his stored lyrium vials too, which he keeps in case of emergency.

He hears uneasy conversation and shuffling in the main room, and rushes back in with his supplies to see Aveline dump Hawke’s motionless body onto the cot nearest the doorway. She rips off her shined gauntlets and gloves, not wasting time to relieve the fallen warrior of her armour.

Anders makes his way over without hesitation, dragging a stool as he goes so he may sit beside his patient; ready to start working once the guardswoman pulls off the scratched metal plackart and pauldrons with practised ease.

“Do you know what happened to her?” the healer asks, leaning forward to solemnly peer at the resting face of his unconscious friend.

“I saw her take a dagger in her left shoulder, and some kind of spell not long afterward,” Varric speaks up, a click sounds as he replaces Bianca on his back. “She saw out most of what’s left of the fight in the most heroic of fashion, as per usual for Hawke.”

As the dwarf had begun talking, Anders busied himself with analysing Hawke’s vitals. Blue magic cascaded from his nimble fingertips and gathered around the knots of sickness and holes from damage in her body. Through his mind’s eye, along with the aid of helpful whispers from friendly spirits in the Fade who reached out to him, he could see these buildups and leaks in an earthly form. A putrid taint flared in her veins, a poison of some form. There was a cluster of magic pooling behind her eyes too -- a sign of concussion. This concerns him further, considering she is unconscious.

Once his diagnosis is complete, Anders sets to work healing his injured comrade.

Aveline piles Hawke’s armour in a tidy arrangement on the beaten cot beside her and begins pacing the quiet room. She does not speak, instead listening to the rattling of shutters in the light wind and scratching of her soles on the splintered floor. Repeatedly, she looks up from her path to see if there is any change in her friend’s condition. She knows that nothing will change between the every ten seconds she turned her attention away.

The cot supporting the relatively ceremoniously dumped pile of sullied metal armour whines under the extra weight as Merrill perches herself on the edge of it. She watches with ebbed concern as the healer works away in stillness. The elf marvels at the ease Anders pulls and folds the magic in his grasp throughout Hawke’s body. She does not forget her contempt for his condescending manner towards herself, no matter how astute he is in his powers.

Merrill is brought from her reverie by the gentle hand placed on her shoulder. “Good thing he was here, ‘ey, Daisy?” Varric says with muted confidence, careful to not disturb Anders’ concentration. “I’m not quite sure where Blondie’d’ve been if he wasn’t skulking around here.”

His weak laugh falls silent as Merrill looks to him with a thin smile. “I suppose we could’ve taken her to that one healer down the dirty alley near the alienage. I hear he’s nice, charges an awful lot though, oh, I’ve also heard he uses maggots to clean out wounds and insists eating them helps build up immunity to whatever poisons they’ve fed on. Do you think that may be true?” Varric does his best to not gag.

“Do you think she would’ve lasted long enough to bring her to my- the Dalish clan by the mountains? I’m sure Keeper Marethari would heal her. I doubt anyone else would be happy about it, let alone having me there, but the Keeper wouldn’t turn her away. I hope.”

“Merrill,” Aveline stops from her circles, a headache from exhaustion and stress nagging at her temples; the girl’s ramblings were doing nothing to ease the pressure. “Please.”

“Oh! Sorry,” she mumbles, “don’t want to disturb Anders from his work with my rambling. I was rambling was I? I’m still rambling, aren’t I? I’m rambling. I’ll just stop now.” Aveline sighs.

Anders halts the spells he is muttering under his breath, the brilliant blue glow of his hands fading into obscurity, and makes an attempt to slow his breathing. His work is very straining on his malnourished body, already plagued by the insatiable Warden appetite that comes from the taint coursing through his system. Having done all he can with his healing abilities, Anders sets to work applying a cooling salve to the now scarring wound marking Hawke’s shoulder before bandaging it up neatly.

“Will she be okay?” Aveline asks, now hovering over his shoulder as he ties a knot in the gauze.

“She’ll be fine,” he assures, pulling the bandage tight. “Although I don’t understand why Hawke would venture outside of Kirkwall’s gates without a healer; it strikes me as quite unlike her.”

“You’re the only real healer we got. Normally little Hawke would make do but now that she’s in the Circle,” Varric sighs with a shrug, saddened by the loss of young Bethany, “she knows how important your work here is. Doesn’t like stealing you away more often than she has to, Blondie.”

Anders turns his troubled gaze to the sleeping woman lying within his reach. He sighs, unsurprised by this revelation; makes a mental note to stress to her the importance of having him with her whenever she is outside the confines of Kirkwall, repeatedly. Justice disagrees, but the spirit always did when it came to Anders’ interpersonal relationships. Hawke was important to him, not above his duty, but still significant. She may not be a mage like him, but her understanding and influence were valuable to not only his plight but himself as a man. Even if he could never have her. It did not diminish his regard for her.

“If she’s okay, I will need to take my leave,” Aveline states, her chin high. “As much as I want to stay, I have my other duties to attend to. It is only mid afternoon.”

The Captain gathers her gauntlets and gloves which she had discarded in haste to relieve Hawke of her gear. Pulling on the leather first, she slips on the dulled metal claws and bows her head. “Take good care of her. I will send word to her mother when I am back in my office.”

“I can’t believe she considers this her spare time,” sighs Varric, his head shaking once the intimidating woman is out of earshot. “Her work ethic, among other fantastic qualities of hers, are… unnerving.”

“It’s almost like you’re scared of the woman, Varric,” Anders teases, his brows raise and jaw relaxed.

“Are you kidding? She scares me shitless,” he states with a dramatic throw of his arms, “You ought to be quaking in your tunic, Blondie. Once she gets a whiff of your long stares and rosy cheeks, I doubt even your magic ghost will be enough to protect you from her tempestuous fury. It would make for an excellent tale, don’t you think?”

“Varric,” Anders frowns, “We’ve been over this. Many times.” Justices flares in indignant frustration.

“Been over what?” Merrill interjects, “I don’t understand why Aveline would be upset by a more healthy complexion on his face, Varric, I honestly don’t think it’s healthy for him to be so pallor and gaunt in the cheeks. Although I suppose there are some who are naturally quite pale and thin, but I’m not sure.”

“Don’t worry,” the blonde mage sighs deeply, crossing his arms across his chest and directing a displeased glare towards the apparently, quite funny dwarf.

“I suppose if Daisy hasn’t keyed in yet, you’re safe to bet Aveline won’t anytime soon,” Varric muses, his stout fingers scratching as his growing beard. He makes a point to give it a bit of a trim when he returns to the Hanged Man.

“I don’t understand-”

“I said “ _don’t worry_ ”, Merrill,” Anders pouts with irritation, still fixed on Varric, and shakes his head subtly. 

Varric had brought up his affections before, Isabela too; both had been repeatedly met by Anders’ dismissive attitude. He was confident that endeavours of that nature were beyond him. Now that the Spirit of Justice shared his mortal vessel, his life had renewed purpose that held no opening for physical and strong emotions ties. It’s what he told himself at least, when he lay alone at night staring at the decaying ceiling above him. 

He yearned to he touched, held. No strength from the Holy Spirit within him could crush the loneliness that consumed him; no amount of good deeds and lives saved could force away the darkness that ate at his human soul. 

Hawke’s friendship would have to be enough for him. 

Varric looks upon Anders with unabashed pity. Having faced his own struggles, the dwarf found no joy in seeing his friends, no matter how foul-tempered they were, suffer in isolation. He didn’t wholly comprehend the mage’s reasons behind keeping his affections to himself. It seemed like the man was in too deep to risk rejection, to his observations at least, so he’d continue to push the topic regardless of how vehemently Anders would insist that there was nothing left to discuss. 

The tension in the room is awkwardly dissipated when Merrill produces a sloshing flask from her pack and hands it to Anders. 

“You should drink more water, that would surely help your complexion. I’m sure you’ll be tired after healing Hawke, I mean, I’m exhausted whenever I cast more than three spells, I can’t imagine how tiring healing must be, especially considering how bad she was,” she waves the drink before the healer’s face, “unless my constitution is miserable. Maybe it’s that. You should drink up anyway, Anders, your lips are chapped.” 

“No thank you, I’m fine,” he sighs, leaning back from the flash shoved in his personal space. 

“I insist. I’ll only be discarding the rest on my plants when I return to the alienage,” the elf grins, pressing further into Anders’ vicinity. “There’s lemon and a pinch of elfroot in there, too!” 

“C’mon Blondie,” Varric encourages with a smirk. 

With a huff he takes the scratched flask from Merrill’s thin hands and pops the lid. He wouldn’t say, but he is parched; he drained most of his mana purging Hawke’s ailments and casting had always left his mouth unreasonably dry. He does his best to not gulp down the liquid, although a single bead escapes his lips and runs down his stubbled chin. Anders makes a mental note to find some lemons for his rations next time he travels. 

Taking her bottle back, Merrill returns it to her leather satchel with a grin. 

“Daisy, how’re your flowers growing anyway? Did you move the pots to the windowsill?” Varric inquires, wandering off to the back of the clinic. 

Returning to hear her answer, he brings along a knobbly footstool he found to sit on. It creaks and knocks onto the shorter leg when he eases his weight onto the smoothed wood. 

“Aye, I did! They’ve so much colour now! Even the flytraps are grinning- oh, do you ever have problems with pests, Varric? I’ll give you a flytrap for your room, it’ll most definitely eat anything the size of a small rat so keep your valuables away from it,” she beams, pride evident in her posture and tone. “Oh, and animals, particularly cats; there’s a poison that excretes from its pores and it’ll paralyse whatever chews on it.” 

Anders zones out of the conversation, thankful he is now safe from any personal discussion about him. Exhaling out his nostrils with a hiss, he blinks tiredly and watches Varric’s response but does not hear it. He is tired, and he is troubled. 

Justice nags at the frayed edges of his consciousness as always; whispering and aching for work to be done. This is a distraction, these people are a distraction, the sleep waxing through Anders’ bones was a distraction. There is a manifesto that sits still far from complete in the old jewelry box on his desk. 

He had taken the carved treasure when he took the boat from Ferelden; it’s contents served as a reminder of what has come to pass. A fitting home for his incomplete writing. 

The sooner it was finished, the sooner Justice would hopefully relent. Anders reminded himself that things were no longer a simple “Justice” and “him”; they were one in the same. Sometimes though, priorities very much clashed. Usually the Righteous Spirit won out to the man’s diminished value of self, but neither could fight the base needs of their shared vessel; warmth, comfort. This they could agree on as two separates and one whole. 

Brilliant cyan crept slowly into his field of vision, the spirit clawing for control; desperate to stir their body from it’s seat. Justice demanded work be done. 

A feeble tug at his hanging sleeve chased away the ghost that threatened to take hold, although he wasn’t sure if he had actually felt it or imagined it at first. 

Hawke, in her groggy state, pulled again at the quilted fabric; her finger hooked around the cuff. She had slowly begun waking; her mind, however, was still clouded and pulsing. She peered up at Anders with lidded eyes. Her hair a disheveled mess, splayed out under her head; grit and blood binding strands together in chunks. 

Startled, Anders looks down at his patient. He is surprised to see her awake already. But she’s conscious, which he will take as a good sign. Gingerly, he brushes a strand of dirty hair away from her mouth with his cold fingertips. Hawke smiles. 

“How are you feeling?” he questions with a tender voice, “You were in an awful state when Aveline dumped you here.” 

Hawke gives a breathy grunt as she tries to fidget in the uncomfortable cot. “Okay, I suppose… But my head is pounding.” 

Anders places a kind hand on her chest when Hawke tries to sit up. With his chastising frown, she submits and sinks into the groaning tarp with a sigh. A cooling palm is placed on her forehead and her eyes drift shut while healing magic courses through her vision. She finds the glowing patterns nauseating, but the soothing matter soon remedies that too. 

A moment of hesitation is all there is before Anders hastily retracts his hand. He averts his gaze nervously before leaning forward, his elbows balanced on his knees. His left leg softly bounces on the ball of his foot. Justice purrs lividly. 

“Why did you not bring me with you?” 

“Because what you do here is more important,” Hawke mumbles. Headache now dissipated, all that was left was the heaviness in her limbs and lethargic thickness of her tongue. 

Anders already knew Hawke’s answer which Varric had supplied earlier, but had needed to hear it from her lips himself. He tugs at his once pierced earlobe. It didn’t help him feel any less conflicted. 

“I understand if you omit me for errands around Kirkwall, in fact I appreciate it,” he murmurs, voice much like a disappointed and exasperated parent, “But you ought to take me with you when you journey beyond the city limits. Saves us all from incidents like this, sweetheart.” 

“Sounds like you’re expecting a promise,” Hawke says with weakly knitted brows. 

“So what if I am?” He meets her tepid glare with his own diluted glower. Soundlessly, they hold their ground before Hawke rolls her eyes back in submission. She does not say anything, but Anders knows he has won this round. His expertise was valuable, and much needed whenever the group took extended excursions up the coast or what have you. 

“Hawke, it’s about time you woke up! You had us a bit worried -- wasn’t sure if we’d make it here in time for our Warden friend to give you mouth-to-mouth,” Varric laughs heartily, “We were beginning to discuss who would’ve had to stand in before we found him. And you know my thoughts on humans.” 

This brings a weary chortle from the injured Hawke, and she directs her smile up to the flustered Anders seated beside her. Heat rises in her face. 

“Ah well, I’ll leave you to your rest, Hawke.” Varric rises from his seat and pats Merrill on the shoulder. “Let’s go. The sooner you’re back within the disputably safe confines of your home the better, Daisy.” 

“Oh, you surely don’t think it’d be dangerous for me to walk back now, it’s only late afternoon, Varric, I mean I did see someone getting mugged again around high noon last week but still,” she gasps, hands raised to her open mouth. A gentle squeeze of her shoulder, and Varric smiles. 

“I want to see these man-eating plants of yours.” 

“Ooh, yes, that sounds great, I can show you which one I think you should have!” Merrill grins with wide eyes, jumping from her seat on the rickety cot. Hawke’s armour still on it clinkers as the fabric shifts 

“I do hope you’re feeling better soon, Hawke,” the elf adds, waving as she makes her way to the doorway with the crossbowman in tow. Anders stands and walks the two to the door. 

“Me too,” the injured warrior smiles, raising her hand in turn before sinking back into her makeshift bed and closing her eyes. A little more sleep would do her some good. 


End file.
